


Loss of Motion

by EA_Lakambini



Series: Orbital Resonance: GOC2020 [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Good Omens Celebration 2020, Holy Water, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Love, science as metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23997262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EA_Lakambini/pseuds/EA_Lakambini
Summary: Crowley, in the aftermath of several strained conversations with Aziraphale, reflects on the cost between moving and staying still.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Orbital Resonance: GOC2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1725724
Comments: 6
Kudos: 28
Collections: Good Omens Celebration





	Loss of Motion

**Author's Note:**

> We got pining!Aziraphale in the previous story, so for this one, it's pining!Crowley.  
> (You can bet that in subsequent stories they'll be pining for each other, because YES ALWAYS YES to pining stories hahaha)
> 
> Prompt: force.

**Every body perseveres in its state of rate, or of uniform motion in a right line, unless it is compelled to change that state by forces impressed thereon.**

_“Do you know what trouble I’d be in if… if they knew I’d been fraternizing?”_

Crowley stared dumbly at the lake, where the paper containing his request had just burst into flames. He hadn’t thought that what he was asking for was such a terrible thing, but clearly Aziraphale held a different opinion. He thought he had understood the angel well, thought he knew that the angel would understand him, too. He had assumed that they could move on as they always did, blessings and temptations alike falling by the wayside and shifting through the years, but they could remain the same.

Yet, after all the years they had shared, circling round each other, continuing on in this assignment on Earth together, it was his request that had changed the game, moved them in different directions, possibly permanently.

 _Why_ couldn’t he have just stayed content with what they had?

The Arrangement should have been enough. It allowed him to get his work done more efficiently, and it allowed him to see Aziraphale, far more often than he ever had in previous millennia. But Crowley knew that his luck could run out, and soon. Every moment with Aziraphale left him longing for another, and he knew that he could soon become reckless with his desire to spend more time with the angel.

Crowley couldn’t stop himself from seeking Aziraphale’s company (he knew this; he had tried, tried so hard but that all went to blazes whenever he let himself remember the angel’s blasted smile). With that option out, he knew he had to find a way to protect them both, if and when the forces of Hell finally caught on. He needed to ensure he could always return to Aziraphale’s side.

After today, Crowley didn’t know if he could even ask for that.

*~*~*~*~*

**The alteration of motion is ever proportional to the motive force impressed; and is made in the direction of the right line in which that force is impressed.**

_“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”_

The words continued to echo heavily in Crowley’s mind, long after the angel had left his car, after he had brought the thermos to his flat, after he had drunk himself stupid alone in his study. He gripped the edges of his throne hard enough for the wood to dig into his palms; it did little to quell the raging emotions within him.

He had been so patient, always waiting, always looking out for Aziraphale and his safety and his comfort and his happiness. How did the offer of a drive suddenly become too fast? How did even a picnic or a dinner become something impossible for the angel to yield to, beyond the concept of a someday? After six thousand years of wearing kid gloves and using piano fingers around the angel, somewhere Crowley had apparently crossed a line that he wasn’t even aware of.

He slammed down his glass, and some of the whiskey splashed out and onto the table, some drops of the clear amber liquid spattering the thermos of holy water, where it stood near the edge. Crowley brushed away the droplets with a cold finger, slowly dragging over the tartan pattern on the thermos. Wiping away clean any trace of him on that angelic design.

And even with the glass steady on the table now, the whiskey still moved, the ripples from the force of his hand seemingly unceasing. Threatening to spill over. Make a mess. Ruin everything.

Crowley knew it wouldn’t matter even if he decelerated, slowed down to whatever “too fast” wasn’t. His feelings for Aziraphale were too massive, the love too great to contain and infinitely resistant to any attempts to change – and the resulting force would always be too _much_.

Crowley would always try, though. No matter what it took, until he could ask the angel and get a “yes” in return.

*~*~*~*~*

**To every action there is always opposed an equal reaction: or the mutual actions of two bodies upon each other are always equal, and directed to contrary parts.**

_“We are an angel and a demon! We have nothing whatsoever in common!”_

Crowley had really done it this time. He had pushed too hard, and had forced Aziraphale’s hand.

He slammed the door of his flat shut but kept walking. He still felt numb – that aftermath of a gunshot to the gut where you were still winded and not thinking anything beyond _crap, that fucking HURT._ Every step echoed against the cold unfeeling concrete of the flat, enunciating the words in his head, the words he had shouted back at the angel, words that had been denied.

_“I don’t even like you!”  
“You do!”_

Crowley had always kept moving. He was never able to stay still, could never remain steady. Always faster – _too fast_ – and always more, but always remaining in the angel’s orbit, teetering between shrinking the distance and backing away. Stopping was not an option, because that left him vulnerable to attack, left him to doubt and reconsider his next move. Stopping meant that Aziraphale might finally, painfully see right through him, and the angel of course would turn away from what he saw.

He had privately hoped that the angel would prove him wrong. Now, he knew he was so so right, and it was nearly too much for him to bear. Now he felt what came next after the shot: a hand to the wound coming away bloody, the sinking realization of _it all ends here._

He walked past the painting covering the safe, and he could feel the holy water just hiding behind; the only option that he had left now, it seemed. Somehow it always came back to this. Apparently _this_ was the extent of what the angel could give him. Crowley had already laid out his heart, practically begged Aziraphale to come away with him – and the angel had responded just as forcefully, but away from him instead.

Crowley wouldn’t ask any more.

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies for much angst and moodiness seeping into the writing - it was supposed to be my wedding day today (which obviously didn't happen due to the COVID situation), so I'm dealing with it through this story.
> 
> Thanks for dropping by!


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